


The Sublimer Emotions

by KannaOphelia



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Accidental Bedsharing, Accidental Cuddling, Best Friends to Lovers, Casually undressing in front of your pining best friend, Edwardian Period, First Kiss, First Time, Guilty Cuddles, Hurt/Comfort over minor illness, M/M, Pining, Requited Love, Shoulder Sleeping, cw: accidental mild damage to Psmith's monocle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Mike did indeed boast an admirable lap, with the sturdy broadness of an athletic young man who kept himself in good kettle in the slim hope of decent cricket coming around. Muscular, that was the word. Strong thighs. Attractive thighs. Psmith had noted them with a small amount of wistfulness before, being himself built more on the lines of a sapling than a full-grown oak.Why, this far into their acquaintance, the simple observation that Mike had attractive thighs should lead to the impulse to climb onto his lap, left Psmith's usually sharp brain at a loss.
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	The Sublimer Emotions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> A pinefest for Pine4Pine. Hi DoreyG, I very much hope you enjoy it! <3

It was an unremarkable morning in all aspects, except that Psmith was conscious of a remarkable conjecture. To whit: it would be rather pleasant to sit on Mike's lap.

It was a good conjecture, if *good* referred to being backed up by supporting evidence. Mike did indeed boast an admirable lap, with the sturdy broadness of an athletic young man who kept himself in good fettle in the slim hope of decent cricket coming around. Muscular, that was the word. Strong thighs. Attractive thighs. Psmith had noted them with a small amount of wistfulness before, being himself built more on the lines of a sapling than a full-grown oak.

Why, this far into their acquaintance, the simple observation that Mike had attractive thighs should lead to the impulse to climb onto his lap, left Psmith's usually sharp brain at a loss.

"If you're going to stare at me through that blasted monocle instead of eating, at least let me have your bacon," said Mike, with some wrath. "Have you mistaken me for some species of insect?"

Psmith opened his mouth, willing and happy to while away the tedious hours with a lecture on the technical features of insects and their resemblance or not to his treasured boyhood companion Comrade Jackson. Then he noted that Mike was a trifle flushed, a delicate shade of rose staining his cheeks, his eyes bright.

For the first time since he had toddled up to Nanny and tried out the effect of hypophoria, beginning his speech with "Why has Teddy's arm come off?" and enlarging on the subject for the next forty-nine minutes despite all her pleas for mercy, Rupert Psmith found himself at a loss for words. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, noticing the way Mike's eyelashes cast tiny shadows on his cheek.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times. His throat remained dry and wordless. Had Mike's knuckles always had those captivating rises and dips?

"Smith, are you ill?" Mike's good-humoured irritation transformed to concern.

Perhaps Psmith _should_ be ill. Perhaps Mike, never good at verbal comfort but a laconic man of action, would cross to Psmith, lean over him, test the heat of his skin and wipe any dew from his bespangled forehead. Lend Psmith a sturdy arm to lean on, and convey him to bed.

Perhaps Psmith really was ill, because he was almost sure the beating of his heart was not meant to be so hard nor so painful.

"I feel I am fading away more every passing moment," Psmith said plaintively. "While the thoughts of The New Asiatic Bank usually fill me with thoughts of eager striving to set myself alight the pyres of industry, I find today I blanch at the thought of the premises. I quail at the thought of honest toils. I would fain nap."

"I have some headache powders somewhere."

Psmith rose. "I am beyond the reach of such palliatives, but I will take one to ease your sensitive nerves. Tell Comrade Rossiter that he must bear up, and not give in to loneliness and depression. I will return to his service tomorrow."

"All right," Mike said uneasily. "Make sure you rest." His brow creased, but he wasn't one to make a fuss and Psmith was glad of that. He was conscious that what he wanted most of all was to escape Mike's presence, a feeling so entirely unlike him as to be deeply unsettling.

No. What he wanted _most_ of all was to wrap his long arms around Mike's waist and kiss the life out of him. Unthinkable. That would be the biggest risk to their perfect companionship imaginable. Mike was stolid, noble, and most of all easily embarrassed by demonstrativeness. Mike would endure any danger or inconvenience for anyone who had even the slightest claim to his friendship, but he was not prone to sentimentality. It was a combination of traits Psmith had been comfortably assured they had in common, and it was disconcerting to now find himself capable of the most incredible depths of sentimentality.

He retired to his bedroom, not to rest but to think. Mike was fond of him, that was certain. And that Mike craved excitement was a given. But there was excitement and excitement, and physical danger on an adventure was entirely different to the kind of danger posed by one's boon companion beginning to talk feverishly of Achilles and Patroclus.

No, there was only one sensible solution, and that was to go on as usual, and nip any sentimentality in the bud. Or he risked losing Mike's company altogether. From the wave of grief and anxiety that swept over Psmith at the thought, the weed of sentimentality had taken deeper roots before he realised it, so the key was to not let the bally thing flower.

At one twenty pm, Mike arrived in an extortionately expensive taximeter cab, laden with a dish of soup from a dining establishment. "Here. Thought it might be wholesome when you're poorly or some such rot. Dash it all, must hurry back or I'll be in the soup myself." He exited the flat as quickly as it came, and it seemed to Psmith that blossoms and flowers were breaking out all around, and possibly angels were singing somewhere in the vicinity as well.

* * *

Psmith managed to get himself back on a more even kilter over the next few weeks. For the first time, it appeared to him rather an advantage than not that Mike had been promoted to the Cash Department. At first the substitution of Bristow had been a bitter pill to swallow, but now, Psmith told himself, a slightly broken heart was better than one being broken almost at regular quarter hours every time Mike appeared to be looking at the ledger and not at him. His craving for Mike's company was unabated, but it was best in controlled doses these days.

There were danger spots, of course. He found it best not to pop into Mike's bedroom of a morning, because the formerly unexceptional sight of Mike stripped to his skin to shave painted vivid images on the back of Psmith's eyelids for a week. Naturally, he had noticed before that his companion was in good form. At Sedleigh, they had taken their shared dorm room and the requirements of cricket for granted. There was no precedent for the way Mike's chest was dusted with hair to suddenly seem like the most important thing in Psmith's universe, or to have extraordinarily vivid curiosity as to what the texture of the hair would feel like under his tongue.

And there would be moments when Psmith looked up from perusing his evening novel and be caught suddenly by how firelight brought out the strong shape of Mike's lips, and private speculation as to how they might feel and taste. He might have the irrational desire, when at the Gaiety enjoying some light entertainment as a brief break from his onerous duties at the Senior Conservatives, to reach across and take Mike's hand in the darkness. He might go through his days in a secret fervour of longing for Mike's voice, or Mike's smile, or to feel that solid form pressed against his, but he fancied he showed no sign of it. Their companionship remained light, pleasant and wholly enjoyable.

That Psmith found himself waking in the middle of the night aching and straining and _damp_ , with confused memories of Mike saying and doing things that his friend never would do in the daytime, was his own secret suffering, and nothing to bother Mike with. If he caught himself once sobbing _love you_ as his fist worked, that was nothing to bother anyone but himself. After all, did Jonathon not love David, and no one thought anything of it? Presumably, Jonathan was equally tactful about any secret desires.

Sometimes Psmith fancied that Mike seemed a little more distant than usual, and a little preoccupied, but he reassured himself it was not because he detected any signs of lovelorn pining. It was unfortunately clear that an indoor life in the pursuit of Commerce sat badly with that active young man, and that boredom was to him a form of torture. Psmith, who was never bored and always found sundry little ways to amuse himself, did not understand, but did sympathise. Spending all day at the New Asiatic Bank, as Mike declared, was enough to give any man the pip. And certainly he did not seem to avoid Psmith's company.

All, indeed, was well, if you discounted the cracks in Psmith's heart.

Until Mike caught a cold in the head.

Only true love, Psmith reflected, could make Mike Jackson with a cold in the head an attractive object. His manly beauty disappeared behind swollen eyes, a red and flaking nose, and the general appearance of a skinned bear. Psmith, he had to admit to himself, was pretty far gone if the sight of Mike snorting and honking into a handkerchief managed to pull tenderly at his heartstrings. The fact that all he wanted was to wrap Mike up in dressing gowns and blankets and pet him soothingly was a sign of just how irrevocably Psmith's heart was lost.

Mike with a cold in the head was also stubborn as a skinned bear. All his natural intransigence came to the surface, and asking him to stay in bed past the first day or two was like requesting Mount Everest to wander over for a chat.

"I'm fed up with bed," he croaked, when Psmith remonstrated at his bedside on Saturday morning. "I can suffer just as easily on the sofa."

Psmith tutted disapprovingly, but mixed him some whiskey and lemon in hot water to soothe his throat. "At least try to read less. It can't be good to strain your eyes like that, and it will be a matter of great inconvenience to me if my confidential secretary and adviser is rendered sightless."

"I'm bored witless, I tell you." Mike accepted the drink as if gloomily accepting a poison cup at a sacrifice.

"Then allow me to divert you with easy chatter about my afternoon with Comrade Bristow and my attempts to reform his mode of dress."

Mike made a comment which suggested a most unflattering opinion of this mode of discourse.

"Quite right, Comrade Jackson. I should not strain myself with the unusual burden of coming up with topics of conversation. I am a man of action, not of speech. Then perhaps, as a special treat, you might be persuaded to let me read to you while you close your eyes and think of happy pink clouds and gambolling rabbits."

Mike opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, "All right."

He was unexpectedly quiescent as Psmith arranged himself on the bed next to him, propped up against the headboard. He did register a certain amount of displeasure at Psmith's choice of comic romance rather than detective or adventure story, but eventually relaxed a little his eyes drifting closed.

"'' _It's no good looking bored,' I went on, 'because I'm going to talk about myself, however much it bores you. Here am I, as fit as a prize fighter; living in the open air for I don't know how long; eating good, plain food; bathing every morning—sea bathing, mind you; and yet what's the result? I feel beastly.'_ "

Bob yawned and gave a little whine.

" _'Yes,' I said, "I know I'm in love. But that can't be it, because I was in love just as much a week ago, and I felt all right then._ ''" 1

Mike's weight settled more and more heavily against Psmith's side as his breathing slowed, still rasping.

Psmith was conscious of very little but the scent of Mike, the good solid weight of him, the faint soapy fragrance of his hair free of oil.

" _It may be merely hunger. I may be all right after breakfast, but at present I seem to be working up for a really fine fit of the blues,_ " he read, then let his reading wind down, and sat there, still and quiet, listening to Mike breathe, feeling his head rest on his shoulder. He was, he realised, quite content to stay there for hours. The rest of his life. He could feel Mike's heart beat, sense that he was giving comfort by being close. In illness as in strife, Mike, self-sufficient as he was, clung to Psmith.

"You dear thing," he breathed at last, carefully putting an arm around the broad shoulders, and very gently formed the ghost of a kiss on Mike's head.

Mike made a kind of grumbling sigh, and Psmith's heart leapt into his throat in one moment of terror. Then Mike, still slumbering soundly, nose dripping unappealingly at the end, snuggled in closer, throwing one arm across Psmith's chest and burrowing his face in against him.

The world managed to be both bliss and agony at once. Psmith shifted into a more comfortable position, and gave himself up to suffering. He was a cad and the worst kind of louse, he realised, to feel any kind of stirrings such as this for an ailing comrade. Mike _trusted_ him; he would not be so close if else. Only the worst kind of bounder would be feeling heat curling at the bottom of his stomach, feel heaviness build between his legs as his blood burned.

He told himself savagely to enjoy it. After all, when would it happen again? They would have a few years of friendship, then Mike would find some sweet-natured girl with a heart as simple and open as his own, and this... this would never happen again. Mike's kisses weren't for him, and he might as well accept that one night of innocently embracing him was all he could have.

He felt like his heart was breaking, and at the same time he was floating in a haze of bliss. A fit of the blues or the rosiest of pinks, who could tell? Hunger, yes, but hunger to taste the skin so close, to kiss and touch and own. His pulse pounded and he ached, oh, how he ached.

It was several hours before he dozed.

* * *

"Smith."

"Yes, Comrade Jackson?" Psmith had been deep in sleep, but an inner part of him was convinced that if he was dead and Mike called for him, he would endeavour to awake. He wondered where he was. This mattress was far harder and lumpier than he was accustomed to. He would have to put a word in with the landlord.

"It's not — I'm not sure — I don't think I can bear this."

"What seems to be the trouble, Comrade Jackson?" He blinked awake, striving for alertness and chivalry. He was lying — no, sitting — he was half-sitting, half-sprawled on Mike's lap, legs straddling him on each side, in his bed.

Mortification took hold. He was, he was afraid, for the first time in his life, inclined to stammer. But before he could do that, he noticed Mike's red face, and something close to tears, and...

There was a ridge of hardness pressing up against him, and it wasn't his.

"For goodness sake, get off!" Mike begged. "I can't — look, I'm sorry, but... I know it's my fault, and it's something I have to bear myself, so for the sake of all that is merciful please let me move."

"Move," Psmith said slowly. "Yes, moving would seem to be the appropriate course of action." His own body was responding strongly to suggestion. He forced himself to move back a little, and take notice of the tenting, and the tell-tale spot of dampness on Mike's pyjamas.

"Great Scott, don't look!" Mike was desperate. "Look, don't let this spoil things, I can't help it, but I've never bothered you with my feelings and it was just a bit too much, and we don't need to talk of it..."

Psmith had always been known for his lightning-fast faculties. He surged down and pressed his mouth against Mike's, and his lips were _wonderful_ , and his skin, unshaven for three days, scraped against Psmith's exquisitely shaved skin, and it was glorious, it was beautiful, and Mike's mouth was ever so slightly open.

"You're so beautiful," said Psmith, beaming down at him, runny nose and flushed cheeks and swollen eyes and all.

"I don't see how I can be. It's you, you are _exquisite_ and I can't bear it and — Smith, are you sure? I know you're blasted chivalrous, but —"

Psmith rolled his own hips forward, and the friction nearly made his eyes roll back in his head. Mike made a kind of guttural sound in his throat, and it went to Psmith's head like wine. "Does that feel like mere chivalry to you, Comrade?"

"If you don't call me Mike at a time like this, I'll clobber you," said Mike fiercely.

Psmith would have obeyed, but his mouth was suddenly full of velvet tongue and hands were clutching his hair so tight it hurt. There were too many clothes in the way, it was the most important thing the world to reach down between them and feel velvet and wetness. Mike cried out, and the sound itself made starbursts form inside Psmith's head. Somehow between the two of them they managed to bring themselves close together, their hands interlocking as they thrust. It was over too soon, much too soon, the heat and tightness gathering until he spurted. Mike made a sound like Psmith had never heard before, and then seized his buttocks, forced him close and thrust fiercely and raggedly up against his hip until he shuddered and shuddered.

For once in his life Psmith did not object to mess. He collapsed over Mike, felt arms go around his shoulders, clutch him as if Mike never wanted to let him go. The stickiness between them seemed part of that, holding them closer together in the simple physicality of the thing, and...

It hardly seemed plausible, but Mike was sobbing "Love you, love you, you lunatic, love you, I've wanted you so long," in his ear in some kind of broken refrain.

Psmith had rarely had trouble talking himself, but he couldn't find any words now except to repeat back "Love you" and hear the gasp in return. " _Darling_ ," he added, and "Beloved," and "Mike, Mike" and perhaps their dialogue was not scintillating, but it felt the most profound thing in the world.

He finally managed to sit up a little, and looked down ruefully. His eyeglass, which had been caught between them in their exertions, was a little the worse for wear.

"How long?" Mike asked at last.

"It feels like forever. You?"

"Since you confessed to painting that poor dog."

Psmith widened his eyes. The miracle of it, that Mike could have felt like that, and given no sign. Psmith had cause to reflect on the remarkable depths of the man.

"Oh, don't look so astounded. You know there's no one like you."

"I confess to feeling the same about you."

" _Angel_ ," said Mike, and any further dialogue was lost in kisses for a while. "Oh, gosh, I need a bath. We both do."

"You're not at all well," Psmith said sternly. "You must allow me to bathe you, my flower."

"I'm not a flower or a blasted invalid," Mike started to object, automatically, then paused. "Yes. Yes, I think I'd like that," he said, with unusual shyness. "Come here first."

Psmith was by no means unwilling, and he found himself crushed in a tight embrace. The second shift in his reality had occurred, he realised, and it would take some time to fully understand that golden, marvellous Mike loved him. One thought, above all, rose to the surface of his chaotic mind.

It was, indeed, very nice to sit on Mike's lap.

1 Psmith is reading Wodehouse's _Love Among the Chickens._ ↩


End file.
